What If?
by Abe Lincoln Lover
Summary: What would happen? /A Poem and a Short Story/


**AN: This... _started out_ as a poem, but somehow morphed into this. Yeah. I have no idea what just went on down there but if you just want to read the poem and not the story down there then it's perfectly understandable. The two aren't really related (well, I guess you could say that the poem is his thoughts, but ehh I don't know... it's the best thing I've come up to relate the two together, though). I was going to put in a purpose for his regret type thing feeling down there but just left it as it was, if that's okay with you. I wrote the poem during school (when I was thinking clearer) so it makes more sense. I don't think the story makes sense at all. And it's more of a psychological story, so don't read it if you're expecting any action.**

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**What If?**

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**What if **he never found that room?

**What if **he was never told?

**What if **he never knew?

**What would happen?**

.

**What if **he hated magic?

**What if **he didn't care?

**What if **he put Aoko first?

**What would happen?**

.

**What if **his glider never opened?

**What if **he got caught?

**What if **he got shot?

**What would happen?**

.

**What if **Kaitou Kid wasn't real?

**What if **Kuroba Toichi never lived?

**What if **his whole life was a lie?

**What would happen?**

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**What If?**

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Kaito was staring up hard at the ceiling. A clock to his left read 3:07 am but he wasn't looking at it. Eyes were hooked on the ceiling. Unwavering. He inhaled, and the air felt stiff and stale. Strange, seeing as it was his own room. He blinked a couple times, not too rapidly, but his eyes remained fixed on the white expanse above him. He imagined that that was the type of thing that made people become claustrophobic. But he wasn't scared of anything. Except fish. So it wasn't like he shouldn't be looking at it. He blinked again, slower than before. He was getting tired, now wasn't he. Three sleepless nights, all for him. He deserved it, anyway.

The incoming dawn peeked shyly through his window. He brought his wrist up to his sight, still staring through the ceiling. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to not even a ceiling. He broke contact for the first time in hours to take a peek at his watch, which read 4:54 am. Time had flown by quickly, hadn't it. He sighed a bit, exhaling toxic fumes. Not toxic, he reminded himself. But what if they were? He made himself sit up. He was getting sick of this game.

A bird chirped, the first one he had heard all morning. It made him wonder. What color, what species was it? What did it look like? He imagined a blue wagtail, singing softly from its nest and awaiting its mother who would surely bring him some food. But it was all vain ridiculousness, he knew. Because that voice the bird had, it was distinct and specific to just one type of bird. The nightjar. Oh, how fitting. He clapped his hands together behind his head and swung his feet off his bed. He snuck a peek at the ceiling but decided it would be better not to. It was just too distracting, that ceiling. He read the time on his night-stand clock. 5:15 am. Fantastic. Almost time for school, wasn't it.

His feet touched the ground. His carpet felt so foreign to him. He rose himself up - shaky, easy now, shaky - and found his balance barely. He grabbed onto the nightstand to keep himself from falling over. It felt weird to be standing up. And not good-weird. More like bad-weird. He reminded himself that he'd better get used to it, because he couldn't lie in bed for the rest of his life. Or maybe he could. But that wasn't the point. He narrowed his eyes, lids heavy with weariness, and stared out the open window. He didn't remember opening it. Maybe his mom did. But he didn't remember her coming in here, either. 5:42 am.

One step at a time. Soft footfalls, but uneven. Nothing like how he usually walked. Those first couple steps were the worst. Aching ankles, stiff soles, all the expected. He gritted his teeth and stared out the window again. Past the openness quality of it, this time. Towards the house. His neighbors. Singular. Nakamori. But Aoko was up already, wasn't she, and was probably on her way to school by now. Or maybe she was still at home. Quick check at the watch. 6:23 am. Yup, it could be either. Maybe she was like him, though. Maybe today was the day that she was actually going to try to move on. All the same, maybe she'd been okay for a while. Maybe she had walked by his house every day and knew he wasn't going to come out. Maybe she was okay. Maybe she was actually going to be able to get through this. Maybe, God forbid, she was stronger than him.

Somehow he reached his closet. He wasn't sure what he wanted to wear. Of course he had a uniform. But it felt like everyone had a uniform, all their own types. He settled on a black gakuran. Same as he always wore. He touched its sleeve, letting it hover in his palm. Soft fabric, worn down by constant wear. Same feel that his Kid outfit had. He traced the sleeve up to his color, and pulled the entire thing off the hanger. Stared at it. He frowned. It was missing a button. Second one down. He recalled that he'd given it to Aoko. Wasn't this what this whole thing was about, though? He held the gakuran in front of him, examining it completely. Nothing else out of place. His eyes trailed back to the clock. A little red 7:12 am was blinking on it. School started in five minutes. He'd be late. He hated being late. Late. Late. Late. Always late. Too bad he wasn't Hakuba.

He made his way into the bathroom. He was walking reasonably quicker than before. Almost at the same speed as usual. Almost. He turned the water on, letting it warm up as he undressed. He stepped into the shower. The water was scalding. Oh God but he deserved this. He hadn't showered in ages, either. Three days. He sniffed his armpits. Yup, it definitely smelt like it. He added a bit of soap there in order to try to get rid of the smell. It worked. Kind of. And wasn't everything in life like that? He tapped his foot and grimaced at the resurfacing memories. He'd spent three days trying to get rid of them. And failing, at that. And showering wasn't helping. After a while he turned the water off. As he redressed himself, he put his watch back on. The little hands pointed and told him it was 9:23. He sighed, knowing that his mother would kill him for that.

Down down down the stairs he went. His bedroom was on the upstairs level, wasn't it? And to get breakfast he'd have to go downstairs. So down he went. His stomach grumbled and he remembered that he was hungry. His mother had been the thoughtful woman she was and had brought him meals every so often but he'd never eaten them. Just left them. Sometime later she would always come to collect the untouched food and gaze apologetically at him. Well, he assumed that was what happened. His eyes had been glued to the ceiling the whole time, of course. He stumbled down the last couple steps because he wasn't paying attention. He didn't feel like it. As he entered, the living room clock read 10:00 am right on the dot. Smooth.

Making his way into the kitchen, he noted that none of the lights were out. He half-searched for his mother but knew for some reason that he wouldn't find her. She was probably at the library or something, picking up some movie about friendship and charity and forgiveness and all of life's stupid lessons. She would want him to watch it, and he would. She would make him. Personally, the thought of having to endure an entire movie that his mother picked out was absolutely terrifying and he had a feeling it wouldn't help. He had heard once that "only time will heal the wounds." He wanted to use that as an excuse to his mother. But wasn't that what he had been trying this whole time? Wasn't that his tactic that wasn't working? He peeled his drowsy eyes open as he opened the refrigerator door and looked around for something to eat. He took the milk out and noticed a box of PopTarts on the counter. Briefly wondered what that was doing there. Ah, that was it - his mother had mentioned some brand of Western food that she had stumbled across during her time in Las Vegas and had made him promise to try it when he felt better. Sure, he wasn't feeling better but it looked interesting to try. He just wanted something new. Taking the box, milk, and a bowl with him to his seat, he made himself comfortable and prepped his breakfast. Milk and pastry all in the bowl, creating a disgusting brown liquid. Exactly what he was feeling. After a couple minutes of just staring at it and took the bowl and dumped its contents into the bushes beneath the kitchen window. So much for that idea. He stood up from his seat and took a glance at the kitchen oven's clock. 12:34 pm. Huh. Time passed quickly, didn't it.

He supposed that he'd better get going to school if he were going to be heading there at all. Resigning himself, _directing_ himself, he picked his coat up and shrugged it on, recalling that it had been quite chilly the last time he was out and that it probably would be relatively the same temperature now as it was before. He collected his lunch, made days ago by his mother but had not been consumed yet. Glancing at the time - 1:04 pm, he reminded himself - he wondered if he would even get a chance to eat it. After all, it was already after lunch time. Maybe he could eat it on the way home. Uh-huh, he nodded to himself. He would eat it on the way home. Thinking like that gave him a sense of guarantee. Maybe he _would_ be able to make it through the day without falling apart.

His coat was on, his lunch was in his backpack, and he was fully dressed in his uniform. He stopped in front of the door, hand hovering above the knob. He could do this. He could do this. It wasn't that hard. He could do this. He stared at the door, wood wood dark wood cherry wood beautiful polished wood. Tree chopped down to make this wood. Wood wood wood. And now he wasn't making any sense. Goody. He placed his hand on the knob and closed his eyes. Took a breath. And turned his hand. He opened his eyes and swung the door out at the same time. Bright bright sunlight shone in on him. He instantly thought himself a vampire, seeing as the light burned so much. But that was a ridiculous thought, him being a vampire. He needed to concentrate more. Wood wood wood. His eyes adjusted after he commanded them to do so and he saw a lone figure walking down the street, in his direction. He stepped out onto his front stoop and tried to call out to her. Tried to say something, anything. But no words came. He had the sudden feeling of being trapped behind a glass wall, where he could only see the world and not interfere. He had a feeling she didn't see him either. He turned and retreated back into his house, as quickly as he had left it. 2:10 pm.

Perhaps it would be best to just stay inside, for one more day.


End file.
